One Hundred And Thirty-one

The morning sun filtered through the half-closed blinds of Rosewood Private Hospital, casting faint golden streaks across the freshly mopped tiles and sterile white walls. The building was quiet, save for the low murmurs from the nurses’ station and the occasional beep from machines tucked behind closed doors.

Inside Room 208, the air was colder than most of the hospital. The scent of antiseptics lingered heavily, mixed with the faint aroma of sterile linen and freshly brewed coffee drifting from the staff lounge.

Dr. Rosie stood by the edge of the bed, her back straight, her pale coat pristine, a thick manila folder clutched in her hands. Her face betrayed no emotion, her eyes fixed on the figure lying motionless on the bed. Christian Blake, his body completely wrapped in clean white sheets, bandages hugging his skull and shoulders tightly. He lay still, eerily so. Only the faint rise and fall of the sheets had long stopped.

A soft knock echoed on the glass door behind her.

Before s